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Rauglothgor's lair," Narm said quietly, "and spoke with Mourngrym. It seems an
age ago, now."
Shandril nodded. "It seems long ago that I left Deep-ingdale, yet it is a
matter of tendays, not months." She looked at the great painted map of the
Dragonreach upon the wall. "I wonder where we shall be in a year?" she asked.
Narm never replied, for upon her words the doors opened and Elminster came in.
Shandril had thought Mourngrym would be with him, but the sage was alone. He
came toward them, slowly, and for the first time, Shandril thought, he really
looked old. He sat down in a chair beside them, not on the throne, and fixed
them with bright eyes.
"So quiet?" he asked. "Have ye both stopped thinking,
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then?"
"No," Narm replied boldly. "Why say you so?"
The old mage shrugged. "The young are supposed to be always talking or
laughing or fighting, they say. Ye two . . . surprised me." He took out his
pipe, looked at it for a long breath in silence, and then put it away again,
unlit. "I asked ye here to tell thee that I have watched, these past few days,
and ye two are as well trained with art and spellfire as we here can presently
make thee. It is up to thee, now, if ye would grow more powerful. More than
that, it is time for the both of ye to decide what to do with thine lives."
"Do?" Narm asked, but not as one surprised. Elminster nodded approvingly.
"It is not good for ye to drift along under the influence of the knights and
myself. Ye would be swept up into our councils and our struggles. Ye'd slowly
grow embittered and empty, as ye lost the will and way to walk thine own roads
and think for thyselves."
"But we have found friends here, and happy times," Shandril protested, "and "
"And danger," Elminster interrupted smoothly. "I want to keep ye with me. One
cannot have too many friends, and I grow weary of losing them all, one after
another, with the years. But if I let ye stay, I would draw doom to ye, just
as settling down together in the dale, or in a nice cottage somewhere by
thyselves will."
"What? Laving together will bring danger upon us?" Narm asked, bewildered.
"Nay staying in one place will. With thy talent," Elminster said, pointing a
long finger at Shandril, "one mage after another will seek to slay thee.
Mulmaster, Thay, and the Zhentarim all must needs destroy anything that
threatens magery. So walk ye out into the wide Realms and disappear. I can
alter thine outward selves with magic, although to each other ye will look the
same. Pass from sight, and thy menace will be forgotten in the struggles these
tyrants of art have with one another.
"My advice to thee," Elminster continued, "is to wander, and hide. Ye will
need friends who will raise sword or art to aid thee if needed. So walk ye
with Storm Silverhand and
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her fellow Harpers, then find thine own way and thine own adventures again.
Mistake me not I would not be rid of ye. I think ye will soon be slain or
stunted in art and spirit if ye stay here. Come back and visit, though." The
old mage put his pipe in his mouth and puffed it furiously into life with fire
that sprouted from his forefinger, and his eyes grew suspiciously misty.
Shandril and Narm looked at each other. "I we both think you are right,"
Shandril said, reading Narm's eyes. "We would speak with the knights first
however." Elminster looked to Narm, who nodded silently. "We do not want to
leave this place, and our friends," Shandril added. "If we must, we would know
where in the Realms it is best to go."
Elminster nodded. "Well said. If ye like, I'll tell Mourn-grym."
Shandril nodded. "Please." She did not burst into tears until after he'd gone.
"He's right, you know," Narm said gently, arms about her. Shandril sniffled as
she nodded.
"Oh, I know. That's not what makes it so sad. It's leaving friends. First
Gorstag and Lureene at the inn, then Delg, Burlane, Rymel, and the others, and
now the knights. I'll even miss Elminster, the crusty old bastard."
"Well, that's as polite and yet as honest a calling as I've had in a long
time" the sage's unmistakable voice said dryly behind them.
Narm and Shandril broke apart, whirling. "You must have been waiting outside
the door!" Shandril said hotly to Mourngrym. The Lord of Shadowdale raised
calming hands.
"Everyone must stand somewhere," he said. "I lost five gold pieces at dice
with the guards, if it's any consolation to you. The others'll be here in a
moment."
He crossed to a tall cabinet. "In the meantime, shall we have a glass of
wineapple? I strained it myself. It's not fermented; you cannot get drunk on
it, Narm."
"Well, seeing as you have the cabinet open," Rathan hailed him from the door.
Mourngrym sighed. "Is Tbrm with you? I thought as much... leave something
drinkable in there that I can give to visiting gentles, will you?" He went and
sat on
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his throne, flagon in hand.
"Well met, Jhess, Illistyl. . . where's Merith?" he called.
"Along in a minute, my lord," Jhessail said. "He was in the bath when Shaerl
called."
"Ah, that's why she isn't back yet!" Torm said innocently to the glass he was
raising to his lips. Mourngrym's empty flagon bounced off his head an instant
later.
"My lord, if I may borrow your boot for a moment?" another voice said from the
door, sweet and low.
"Of course, lady," Merith said politely, drawing it off and proffering it
politely. Shaerl took it from him and threw it hard and accurately. Tbrm
groaned and dropped Mourngrym's flagon with a clatter, amid general mirth.
"All here?" Mourngrym asked. At the door, Lanseril nodded as he set an ornate
bar across the handles and snapped it down into place. "Good, then ... Narm
and Shandril have something to ask of you." Silence fell.
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